The Many Near Misses of Sherlock Holmes
by StoneWingedAngel
Summary: Four times someone said Sherlock would be the death of them, and one time they didn't.
1. Addict

**Warnings: Mary doesn't feature heavily in this, although she pops up from time to time – I wrote it before the new series came out and added mention of her in recently where appropriate. Could be seen as pre-slash or friendship. Some bad language.**

* * *

**Warnings for this chapter: Effects and talk of drug use.**

* * *

The door to the flat creaked in the way it always did when he entered.

Mycroft was careful; he might be young, but he had an important job, and there were always people who didn't like that. Every morning, before he went to work, he would place a hair in the crack between the door and the wall, and every night, tired and hungry, with his briefcase weighing him down, he would check to see the hair in the same place. No-one ever came into his flat. Few people knew his real address. Even fewer knew his first name.

The hair was in place. He had no reason to suspect there was any problem as he put down his case, keyed in the code to stop the burglar alarm going off, and crossed smoothly through to the kitchen. It had been a long day; his head ached, and he wanted something to eat, something that would steady him, stave off a migraine. He couldn't afford to miss any work lying in a dark room with a cloth over his eyes, not with the promotion for anyone's taking.

The fridge was bare of anything comforting. Lettuces, tomatoes, tofu. He pulled a face – what on earth had possessed him?

Perhaps it had been his brother's cheap crack about his weight at Christmas, or perhaps it was the fact he had gone up two sizes over the past five months, but something had prompted the dieting. He looked down at his waistline despondently, sighed, and selected a piece of fruit and random. It took a couple of second's glowering for him to realise it wasn't going to spontaneously transform into a piece of cake, no matter how much he might want it to.

He had two messages on his phone, one from his lawyer, who wanted him to sort out his will, and one from Mummy, who wanted to know if he'd seen Sherlock. She rang him every day, always when he was at work, no matter how many times he told her there was no point ringing his landline when he wasn't there. She never listened.

Sherlock had been missing for several weeks. Mummy might refuse to believe he was back on the drugs, but Mycroft wasn't so naïve. Sherlock was probably trying something new, running himself back into the ground. He'd turn up in a hospital somewhere, marked down as homeless.

Mycroft would have to pick up the pieces. He always picked up the pieces.

The grapes he was eating were so unsatisfying he was considering actually going back outside to buy something better – hang his diet – when he heard a noise.

It was a very quiet footfall on a carpet; gentle, almost as if the floor had sighed. He tense in an instant, eyes narrowing in the dim light. The phone was too far away, no use, but he reached silently for the nearest weapon; the umbrella he always left standing in the corner. He hadn't taken it to work for days, thanks to the dry weather, but that didn't mean it wouldn't be useful.

People sometimes called Mycroft paranoid, but he was simply a man who liked to be careful. No harm in that. If there was no-one in the flat, then there was no-one to laugh at him if he attacked a phantom with an umbrella; and if there was someone, then it was far better to be armed than not. No-one would laugh at him if he subdued a burglar. The burglar certainly wouldn't.

He advanced slowly, edging his way through to the lounge, to the place he thoughtthe sound had come from. The room looked completely empty. But the window was open.

It hadn't been open when he'd left. He never left the windows open, just as he never left the door unlocked. He had a routine, a nice, ordered, routine, and he stuck to it.

The curtain appeared to bulge outward; in the dim light, he fancied he saw a shadow behind it, found himself inexplicably drawn to it, umbrella grasped in both hands. He was holding his breath, lungs aching – how long had he been not daring to breathe? – as he advanced. Gently did it, around the table, between the sofa and the chair, switch the umbrella to his right hand, reach forward with the left, quietly…now!

The sill was empty. Nothing on it apart from the photograph of his family he'd had there for as long as he could remember. He barely had time to frown, the umbrella lowering as he felt a flush of shame and bewilderment spread across his cheeks.

"Diet not going so well?"

Mycroft felt his heart shoot into his mouth and he whipped around, swinging the umbrella in front of him like a sword, like he had done when he was little and Sherlock wanted to play pirates.

"You look like an idiot, Mycroft. Put that thing down." Sherlock popped his head up from behind the sofa as he sneered. He was filthy, bruised over the left eye, hair cut unevenly – he'd been doing it himself again, stupid boy – and he leaned over the back of sofa with an appearance of nonchalance, but Mycroft could see him swaying. Even in the faded light, he could tell he was sweating. Shivering.

"For god's sake! You almost gave me a heart attack!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and flopped onto the sofa without being invited. "Drama queen."

"You'll be the death of me! Not to mention Mummy. She rings me every day." Mycroft took a breath, threw the umbrella down with more force than necessary, upsetting a small, thankfully empty vase, with a clunk. "Looking for you. Wondering where you've gone. If you're on drugs again."

No reply. Sherlock stared at the ceiling, humming an infuriating tune under his breath.

"What do you want?"

"You already know."

He did already know – a single glance, the bruising, characteristic of a planned beating rather than a random fight, the freshness of the blood, the shivering. Sherlock owed money, and he didn't have any; Mummy had cut off his allowance long ago. Even she wasn't that naïve.

"I'm not giving you anything."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Throwing me to the proverbial wolves, are we? Seems a little cold, even by your standards."

"Don't try and make me feel guilty. I'm not funding your…your _habits_."

"You wouldn't be. You'd be funding my continued existence." Sherlock quirked a lip, although it lacked any of his usual lively contempt; he looked too tired for that. "A very worthy investment, if I do say so myself. Mummy would be very upset if I was found…what was it they said…ah yes 'fucked up in the nearest skip'."

Mycroft shuddered at the image before he could stop himself; before he could stop Sherlock seeing how much he cared.

"Who is it this time?"

Sherlock waved a hand, supposedly offhand, but Mycroft knew it was calculated. "No matter. I'll just be going on my way. Tell Mummy you _could _have done something, but you didn't trust me enough." He got to his feet with a well-practiced slouch, although his shivering betrayed how much effort he was putting into staying upright; Mycroft could see it in an instant, read it in an instant. He didn't know what to do with the information. He didn't know what to do with Sherlock.

"Wait."

Sherlock waited, one hand pressed against the back of the sofa for support. Mycroft thought of the price of steam cleaning when he saw the amount of muck and blood rubbed off on the cushions.

"How much do you need?"

"Two hundred."

Mycroft winced. "Idiot."

"Spare me the lecture. If you don't give it to me, I'll steal it. Of course, if I got caught it wouldn't do Mummy much good."

Mycroft ignored the jibes – old material, Sherlock was obviously too tired to come up with much else – as he fished his wallet out of his pocket and counted out three fifties and some twenties. Sherlock watched him with a smirk on his face that told Mycroft he was being manipulated. That was nothing new. He'd known that all along. Sherlock would never have come for him asking for help just because he needed it; he was too proud, there was too much resentment between them. He could have stolen the money in a heartbeat, to judge from the number of times Mycroft had had his pockets picked when he was young.

Sherlock had come to prove he _could _manipulate him. To prove he could be just as foul, just as much of a fool, as he always was, and Mycroft would cave every time, because he cared more than he wanted to admit.

"I haven't got long."

Sherlock's hand was pale and shaking in the moonlight, fingers thin enough to look brittle. Cracked nails, dirty fingertips. Mycroft looked at his own hands, soft, one ink stain on the thumb. He kept his grip on the money, breathing deeply.

"I need to know you're not going to spend it on drugs. You need to get clean."

A car screeched somewhere outside as Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm not high _now_."

"But you will be. Unless we do something about it."

Sherlock jerked the money out of his hand with a little more force than necessary and shoved it unceremoniously into his trouser pocket. "You mean unless _you_ do something about it." He smirked. "Tell me, what are you going to do? Tie me up and drag me to some fancy, anonymous rehab for rich twats? Professional, expensive, no questions asked." He laughed. Mycroft wondered at what stage his brother's voice had become so bitter it could have been mistaken for cruel. "It'd be cheaper to buy me the drugs."

"I can help you. Here." He couldn't believe the words were coming out; he couldn't believe he was exposing his soft underbelly in this way, to Sherlock of all people, when he knew full well what his reply was going to be. "I've got a spare room. Water. Food. You can go cold turkey, and Mummy doesn't have to know. No-one has to know."

"Apart from you."

"Obviously."

Sherlock snorted, one foot already on the windowsill, even though he could have gone through the door and avoided the risk of a twisted ankle. Mycroft felt his heart pounding.

"I'm trying to help you."

Sherlock looked back at him, scorn glittering at the corners of his eyes. "I don't need your help."

There was a soft thump of well-worn shoes hitting the pavement, the sound of footsteps, and Sherlock was gone.

* * *

The following day, Mycroft surprised everyone in his department by passing up all chance of a promotion and transferring to the lowly surveillance sector of the British government, to help monitor the entire city of London. He never gave a reason as to why. Everyone said it was a damn shame, a waste; none of them thought he would amount to anything there.

They were wrong, of course.

* * *

**Thanks for reading, reviews welcome!**

**To be continued! **


	2. GSW

**Warnings for this chapter: Violence and blood**

* * *

"This is ridiculous," John muttered, scrabbling over the window ledge and dropping onto the carpet with a thump, narrowly avoiding a sturdy-looking wooden table. Sherlock got lightly to his feet, brushing off his coat. John sighed. "I don't care what the guy's done, Greg won't be happy when he finds out we're breaking and entering. Again."

It was the 'again' that made him feel like crying and laughing at the same time. The case had been going on too long; he was exhausted.

Sherlock didn't look exhausted – he rarely did – but was hopping around the flat with an air of a gleeful, if slightly evil, child. "We hardly broke anything," he murmured. "The window was open."

John rolled his eyes and pulled himself to his feet with a wince, briefly rolling his shoulder to relieve it of the stiffness that always came to it when he was tired.

"This guy could come back at any time. Got a cover story for when he sees us?"

Sherlock made an absentminded humming noise as he flicked through the open letters sitting on the chest of drawers in the lounge, threw them down with disdain, and moved through the kitchen.

"He's at a business convention – his secretary told me. He'll be at least another hour."

John wasn't so sure. The secretary hadn't looked like he knew what he was doing when they'd interviewed him earlier; far too scatterbrained to be a secretary, really. Looked a bit like a permanently confused fish. John didn't trust him, not because he thought he had anything to do with the case, but because he looked entirely hopeless.

"I don't think-"

Sherlock clicked his tongue in a way that indicated he'd had quite enough of John's being sensible, and began to probe the inside of the fridge.

"Make yourself useful; find that memory stick. Probably going to be small, dark colours. He doesn't have anyone to buy him a novelty one as some sort of god-awful last-minute gift."

John went to do as he was told, because it was less tiring than arguing. The flat was unremarkable. Perhaps 221b had set the standard of 'bizarre' so high that the ordinary looked unexciting, or perhaps the man who owned it had no concept of 'interesting' but, either way, John found himself bored just looking. Sherlock was rubbing off on him. It was worrying.

"Even with an hour, I don't see how you expect to find it," he called through to the kitchen. "Not unless he's careless."

Sherlock didn't reply. There were a series of clicks, and then a creak. John moved away from the lounge, saw Sherlock had vanished from the kitchen, frowned, and made his way along the hall to find a door open, still with Sherlock's lock picks resting by it. He sighed.

"Sherlock…"

Sherlock waved a hand in irritation. He was standing in a small office, cluttered with files and not one, but two computers, a frown on his face. "It's got to be here. Only locked room in the place. Makes sense…"

John stood patiently, realising Sherlock wasn't talking to him. He tapped his foot, looked at the ceiling, and wondered if the small black smudge next to the light was a dead fly, or just one of those marks that seemed to accumulate without explanation in any home. Sherlock trailed off to a mutter, and then silence, eyes darting, hands steepled under his chin as he turned this way and that, working out something unfathomable, but no doubt brilliant. It was always brilliant, when it came to Sherlock.

It was because he was standing patiently, with nothing to do, that John heard the front door open. Sherlock, lost somewhere in the recesses of his mind, didn't react until John seized him by the arm and dragged him into the cupboard that stood at the corner of the room, cramming them both in alongside files and boxes, clamping one hand over his mouth to stop him speaking. Footsteps sounded in the hall, and there was a squeak.

Hot breath filled the tiny cupboard very quickly; Sherlock's feet were pressed over the top of John's, and the both of them were being jabbed from all sides by the sharp corners of files and god knew what else. John could feel his toes throbbing as they were slowly squashed, but he didn't dare ask Sherlock to move. There was the sound of a tap being turned, and the soft, plastic clunk of a kettle, followed by and electric hiss and bubbling.

Footsteps again, faster, nearer…slowing. Stopping, right outside the study. The man could hardly fail to notice the lock picks, even if he assumed he'd left the door to his office open by mistake.

A mistake. John got the feeling he and Sherlock were going to pay for it. If they were found. When they were found.

He turned his head, scraping his scalp painfully against sharp cardboard, and gave Sherlock a look. Sherlock looked back, inclined his head to the door of the cupboard, and shrugged, minutely. There was a soft clack of metal, as if someone had just picked up a lock pick, and the squeal of a drawer. Footsteps. Coming closer, hesitating, but always closer.

Slowly, very slowly, John raised his hands, pressing his elbow against Sherlock's cheek, and grasped one of the boxes above his head, hoping it contained papers rather than books. He was strong, but not that strong; besides, books wouldn't be enough of a diversion.

Sherlock gently put one foot against the crack of light that showed between the two doors of the cupboard, just as a shadow fell across it.

John nodded. Sherlock powered forward with his heel; the doors flew outward with enough force to rock the whole cupboard to the side, hit something fleshy, and bounced back. John was already through them, flinging the box forward; he missed his target, unable to adjust to the light in time, but the box burst against the desk, scattering loose sheets of paper over the floor, in the air, into their faces. Perfect.

They were all blinded, all struggling in the confines of the office. There was a sharp thud and a grunt as Sherlock rocked against the desk, attacked by an elbow or a knee; John didn't have time to see which before he charged forward again, grasped the man by the collar, and attempted to bring him to the floor.

He heard the gun before he saw it.

At first he thought the cupboard had toppled over, or that the light had fallen from the ceiling. The crack was loud, bouncing in his ears, and when he realised it was a gun, he found it so familiar he didn't register at first; he was back on a battlefield, back standing behind a window, holding a gun outstretched to shoot a cabbie for a man he'd met only hours before. Only this time, he wasn't holding the gun.

He thought it was Sherlock who'd been hit; he assumed it was Sherlock. Nothing hurt. It had hurt instantly before, on the battlefield. He'd felt the muscles rip in his shoulder. This time he couldn't feel a thing.

It had to be Sherlock. Feeling flooded him. Anger. He reached forward to seize the man by the collar a second time, take advantage of the cracking sound still reverberating in their ears to put him out, and then he would go to Sherlock, he would look after Sherlock, and everything would be fine. His arm stretched, brushed the man's shirt, stopped. Something stopped it.

Pain.

John looked down. Something reddish-brown dripped onto his shoes, suede shoes, waste of money really, but he had liked them. And now they were ruined, littered with dark patches like cow skin. Shame.

His legs buckled, a searing, biting, snarling pain punched its way through his side, the world twisted sideways, up, down, he didn't know which way. He caught a glimpse, in the corner of his eye, of the gun clattering to the floor, the man's head striking the desk with Sherlock's hand pressed over the back of his neck. Blood ran onto the white papers carpeting the floor. Some were sprayed only finely, one or two were already soaked. His ears buzzed.

Sherlock knelt next to him, said something so fast John didn't catch a word of it, and touched his cheek. The fingertips were cold, bracing. Something inside John jolted; he felt realisation run across the bridge of his nose like an electric current.

"-hospital, John? John!"

John didn't speak; breathing was painful enough. He merely seized Sherlock's hand and shoved it to the wound in his side, as hard as he could manage. It was only then he realised Sherlock had his phone in his grasp, and the edge of it was pressing into John's flesh. Sherlock switched hands, holding the phone to his ear with his shoulder. John tried to breathe, lost his rhythm, coughed, yelled, found it again.

At least it wasn't Sherlock, was all he could think.

"John? Can you hear me?" Sherlock was pressing his fingers so savagely into John's side that John could feel his nails scraping the flesh. He hoped Sherlock had clean hands. "John?"

John nodded. "Amb-". He cut himself off, tried again. Breathe. "Ambulance?"

"Coming. Five minutes." Sherlock swallowed; John could see his Adam's apple bobbing. He was pale, but he was holding it together. That was good. They needed to both keep talking, stay focused.

"Knew this was a bad idea," he muttered. "Stupid idea of yours."

He must have looked terrible, because Sherlock merely nodded in agreement, rather than arguing that everything was perfectly fine and that John was being a big baby about the whole thing. As he nodded his arm pressed down even further; John felt something inside his body burn and spasm. It made his vision blur and fade; he didn't realise he'd screamed until his sight returned, and he realised Sherlock was shouting at him. The pain was worse. It was eating him.

"John!"  
"Shit!" Swearing. Swearing made it better. He convinced himself it did. "Fuck. Fuck. Always knew you'd be the fucking death of me, with your cases and your…your…shit…" He trailed off, exhausted, head spinning. Everything felt grey.

He had a split-second image of Sherlock looking at him like a startled, hurt animal, and then his eyes rolled – he actually _felt _them roll, it made him feel sick, he was going to be sick, he was going to scream, he was going-

* * *

The flat was musty. John's nostrils curled under the scent of dust and old food; he'd got used to the hospital cleanliness, the pristine walls. 221b was messy, busy, human. Bizarre.

The shot had only grazed his side, although the wound it had created had been more than enough to send him into shock. It had bled fast; it could have killed him if Sherlock hadn't been quick. But it had missed anything vital, and he was healing. He hadn't got an infection. He was lucky. Walking was more painful than he would like to admit, but he made his way doggedly up the stairs and pushed open the door with his lips pressed into a thin line, nostrils flared. He wouldn't show weakness.

He didn't feel lucky. Sherlock hadn't come to see him in a whole week. The nurses told him the paramedics had allowed him in the ambulance, but as soon as they'd reached the hospital, Sherlock had vanished. John had rung him everyday. Mrs Hudson had come to visit, her face pale and pinched, and told him Sherlock was at the flat, and refusing to leave. It had been Mrs Hudson who'd brought him a change of clothes and a card, Mrs Hudson who'd rung around his friends to tell them what had happened, and Mrs Hudson who'd travelled back with him in the taxi. Sherlock hadn't even texted him.

The curtains were shut, putting the lounge in darkness, and John couldn't raise his arm enough to open them. He hobbled, panting, toward the kitchen, desperate for a glass of water, but too proud to call out to Sherlock, ask him for help. Sherlock didn't want to help. John had had a week to fret and stew and turn from irritated to furious, and he wasn't asking Sherlock for a damn thing. He leaned against the sofa for a second, breathed deeply, and limped into the kitchen.

Sherlock was lying on the kitchen table, legs dangling over one end and his head pushed against his microscope, hands under his chin, staring at the ceiling. He didn't turn his head as John came in, didn't say a word. His lips were pale. If he hadn't happened to blink, John might have thought he was dead.

"Thanks for coming to visit me," he spat, unable to stop the words, despite all the promises he'd made to himself in the taxi, that he would make Sherlock come to him. "Thanks for ringing back. For asking how I was. Really. Wonderful of you."

Sherlock said nothing. John filled a glass of water, only just suppressing a groan as his stitches stretched.

John went downstairs in the middle of the night because his side was agony, and he needed to take an extra dose of painkillers. He was sleep-fogged and groggy, uncomfortable and still resentful, but the sight of Sherlock, in exactly the same place as he had been ten hours before, made him stop and sigh.

"You'll ruin your back."

Silence.

"How long have you been there?"

Silence. The beeping of the pedestrian crossing down the street. Silence again. John gave it up, switched on the light, and began to pop pills out of their foil blisters, hands trembling with exhaustion and pain. He swallowed the chalky tablets with a grimace, wiped his chin with the arm he could move without making his stitches shudder, and turned back round to face the table. Sherlock looked like a corpse. Even his blinking was less frequent.

He hadn't noticed it in the daylight, but the electric light caught Sherlock's hands at a different angle, made it obvious. John frowned.

"You've still got blood under your nails. That's disgusting."

Sherlock made a soft humming noise and shifted his gaze to his hands, than back to the ceiling. He didn't look at John, but his cheeks grew darker, his eyes brighter. It took John a couple of seconds to work out that Sherlock looked ashamed. Not of his nails – he'd looked at them – but of John. No, surely not of John. Of what he'd done? Of not visiting?

_Always knew you'd be the fucking death of me._

Sherlock's face, before John's eyes had rolled, had been…strange.

"Sit up." When he didn't get a response he made his way to the table, shoved his good arm under Sherlock's head, and forced him into an upright position, grimacing as he did so. Sherlock yielded, but continued to stare at the ceiling. "Sherlock. Look at me. _Look at me_."

Sherlock did.

"You're not doing either of us any favours. What I said…I didn't mean it. It was a stupid thing to say." He had thought he'd been dying at the time, but it seemed like that wasn't an excuse. In anyone else's book it would have been, but not Sherlock's. Sherlock had a different kind of book. Hell, he probably didn't even have a book. "But not visiting. Not asking how I was, not even calling. I _needed _you, Sherlock, and you screwed me over. You let Mrs Hudson run around after me instead."

Sherlock blinked. His hands remained under his chin.

"For god's sake! Just…think, in future. I don't care that I got shot – I always knew the work was dangerous, it wasn't your fault, not all of it. It was both our faults. Bad luck." He sighed. "I just care that you didn't seem to give a damn."

Sherlock lowered his hands; John could see them shaking in the sickly light. That made two of them.

"I didn't think you'd want to see me."

"Bullshit. I made it very clear I did. I rang you. I got Mrs Hudson to ask you to come." Motivated by anger and the fact the pills were kicking in, he moved to the side and found the nailbrush they kept by the sink, rinsed it, and returned to the table. "Give me your hand."

Sherlock obediently held it out. John began to scrub at his blood-encrusted nails, the frown between his eyes deepening. "Next time, you don't abandon me. Understand? I don't care _what _happens, what stupid thing you do, I want to see you."

"There won't be a next time. I won't…" Sherlock sighed. "I won't let it happen again."

John looked at him, scrubbing less viciously, easing the tension. He was still angry, but he was tired. And Sherlock, especially after his absence, was comforting, ridiculous as it sounded. "You can't guarantee that."

Sherlock set his mouth into a stubborn line that made John want to smile, although he refrained from doing so. For now.

"I can try."

* * *

**Thanks for reading, reviews welcome!**

**To be continued. **


	3. Vertigo

**Note: An AU of the reunion between Sherlock and Greg. **

* * *

If he hadn't been a police officer, Greg wouldn't have stopped. But then again, if he hadn't been a police officer, he might not have felt so tired, and he might have stopped anyway. Too many shifts, too few cups of coffee, and one too many drunken conversations with Anderson. Anderson only talked about Sherlock, about what had happened on the roof of St Bart's, when he was so pissed he couldn't stop himself. And Greg listened, even though it almost made him want to scream.

He noticed them because they were in a crowd, and his job had trained him to keep an eye on crowds. Three youths, looming over someone huddled against the wall in a blanket. Homeless, most likely. Greg heard a couple of names, unsavoury at best, float in his direction on the freezing air. He hesitated, sighed, scrubbed a hand over his face, and went to do his job.

"Oi!" The people turned, although the homeless man only huddled further under his blankets, head down, as if he were ashamed. "Leave him alone."

"Fuck off!" one of them called over their shoulder, brazenly. Greg felt irritation grate on his tired nerves as he pulled out his police ID. It was a risk – if they decided they didn't like the pigs, they might attack him too – but he was lucky. They scarpered, hurling more insults, but leaving Greg and the homeless man alone.

"You alright?" Greg murmured, approaching cautiously. He could have strode on, could have gone home, but every time he walked past someone sitting on the street he always thought about how it was only by the grace of whatever watched over him, god, chance, fate, whatever the hell separated the fortunate from the unfortunate, that stopped him sitting there himself, expecting, craving help. "I said, are you alright?"

The man looked up. Greg felt his head spin in a sickening, dizzying circle as he recognised, rethought, took a second look, and had it confirmed that it really was Sherlock Holmes sitting in front of him.

* * *

"You and your bloody tricks'll be the death of me," Greg murmured, ten minutes later, when they were sitting in an all-night café drinking tea. Or rather, Greg was drinking tea, with about four spoonfuls of sugar in it. Sherlock had thrown back his tea in less than thirty seconds, and was practically inhaling the piece of cake Greg had bought for him. He hadn't said more than a few words since Greg had realised it was him, had realised he ought to have known all along. "Two years. Two bloody years! Have you _any _idea what that was like for me? Not to mention poor John. He'll have been worrying himself sick about you, off on your own…"

Sherlock flinched at the mention of John's name, reached across to the vacated table next to theirs and seized the leftovers of a bowl of chips that had been left there, stuffing several into his mouth before Greg could tell him he would _buy _him some chips if he was hungry. Sherlock's temples pulsed as he chewed and swallowed, lips blue and trembling. He looked a state, even in the dim light. When he got no reply, Greg felt his heart grow cold.

"Tell me he knows. Tell me John knew."

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, swallowed and spoke, rasped the next few words. "He's not that good a liar." He attacked the minute crumbs on his cake plate, and when they were gone he sat eyeing Greg's tea with such a ferocious look Greg pushed it across to him.

"He's going to kill you when he finds out."

Sherlock let out a hollow laugh, spitting tea inelegantly back into the mug. "Assuming any of us is alive any more than the next twenty-four hours."

Greg blinked. Sherlock looked at him defiantly. "What?"

A shudder passed through Greg's chest as he took in the scar over Sherlock's left eye, fresh, nicking the lid. It had to be irritating him, had to be painful. He wanted to know what the hell was going on, why Sherlock had left, not only Greg, but John. It was John that puzzled him most; he'd seen the two of them together, what Sherlock had put him through. But he didn't accuse or shout, even though he knew he should; he couldn't bring himself to.

"I don't think I've ever seen you eat before."

Sherlock snorted into the tea, and threw it back with a grimace. "You've never seen me like this before."  
"What? Back from the dead? No." Greg sighed, and was considering saying something that might have passed for comforting, or if not comforting, rational, but Sherlock got to his feet before he could open his mouth a second time.

"There are people following me. I need to get rid of them before I can risk going back to John, to anyone. Don't tell anyone you saw me. If you start blabbing, chances are we won't last more than a few hours."

Greg didn't need to ask who 'people' were, or what Sherlock was going to do to them. He could imagine, even if he didn't want to. Stupid, stupid Sherlock, thinking he had to fake his own death, thinking he could leave Greg with so many unanswered questions.

"Sherlock…"

"You can't help." Sherlock was wrapping his neck and face in the tatty orange scarf he'd been wearing when Greg found him. "I know what you're thinking. Don't try and stop me; I've managed two years, I can…carry on. Without your help."

_Sure_, Greg thought, getting to his feet. _You're doing just fine_. He wanted to beg Sherlock not to be so idiotic, to forget whatever he was going to do, and just go home. He couldn't bear to think of running into John, knowing Sherlock was alive, and having to pretend.

"How did you do it?"

Sherlock stopped, bluish-purple hands thrusting deep into his ragged pockets. He looked like he was made of ice. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Sherlock…"

"Let's just say it's a good job I'm not afraid of heights." What little colour the tea had brought to Sherlock's face was quickly draining, too quickly for Greg to be comfortable. "Up there…you can feel the wind in your ears. And it makes you want to throw up. Even if you're not scared."

"You were scared." Sherlock's tone was too defiant, too blasé. "Don't pretend. You're still scared. You're scared he won't take you back."

Sherlock's lips curled into a half-smile that looked more like a snarl, and he span on his heel to go, to leave Greg without half the answers, as bloody always.

"Sherlock!" Sherlock paused in the doorway, flinching at the sound of his name. "Stay alive," Greg murmured, standing close behind him. "It'll take time." He thought of Mary and decided that now was not a good moment to go into it. "There will be complications. He's changed. He'll hate you for what you did. But you have to stay alive, for him. If he ever found out you'd died twice…I think it'd kill him."

Sherlock swept out without giving a reply. Greg had hardly expected one.

* * *

**Ah, poor Greg. I felt sad for him this series. And sorry this chapter was a day late, I had some things to sort out - hopefully I'll be on time next week.**

**Thanks for reading, reviews welcome!**

**To be continued. **


	4. Haematemesis

**Warnings: Blood, vomiting, general ick. **

* * *

"He looks pale today," Greg murmured. John, trotting alongside him, about two paces behind Sherlock, inclined his head. Greg was right; Sherlock was looking pale, and had been for the past couple of hours, but then again, he _always _looked pale. Especially when it was cold out, and even more so when he hadn't slept in a few days.

"It's the cases," he replied softly, as they made their way up the stairs of the building, ducking under the police tape stretched across the banisters and ignoring the stares of the office workers who'd had their ordinary day interrupted by one of their colleagues dropping dead. "Two of them last week, one this week. Keeps him occupied, but it wears him out."

"Not that he'd admit it, of course."

John sighed. "Of course not."

"Stubborn git."

John chuckled, and then hastily shut his mouth as Sherlock turned to glare at them both. "Kindly keep your giggling to a minimum; I need to think."

John rolled his eyes, and Greg merely shrugged apologetically and ushered them into the office which currently had the late Mr Finn sprawled on the floor. It was a modern room, bordering luxurious, and spacious enough for them all to fit fairly comfortably into, alongside Anderson, who was keeping quiet.

John couldn't fail to notice that Sherlock passed up the opportunity to jokingly bait Anderson in favour of crouching, hands on his knees, over the corpse with his nose curled. His lack of rudeness was disturbing; he must be feeling even more tired than John had suspected. And that was very tired. _John_ was tired – he hadn't seen Mary in two days, and the distance was already making him weary – and Sherlock had slept less, eaten less. He was flagging. Soon, John would make him rest.

Greg had a notebook balanced on his palm and was scanning the scribbles on it. "Adrian Finn," he said to the room in general. "Thirty-five, going up in the world – two successful transactions in just the last month. Had about as many enemies as a supermarket has tins of baked beans – no-one liked him."

"Wrong," Sherlock murmured, sinking to his knees more heavily than usual and pulling back the collar of the body's shirt with a gloved finger. "_Someone_ liked him enough to give him a lovebite…say, less than two days ago, to judge from the swelling."

John felt his mouth twitch. Greg noted something down in his pad. "Got anything else?"

"He didn't drink, didn't smoke, enjoyed expensive coffee…one, no, two lovers, one of each gender – two different lovebites, different sizes – and…let me see…owned a small rodent, most likely a hamster or gerbil…"

Anderson tutted loudly, more for show than anything else, and John knew it. Sherlock turned to face him. John blinked. It might just have been the yellowness of the electric light, but he seemed to be sweating. Even with his coat on, he could hardly be feeling warm – the office was large enough to be too draughty for comfort.

"Problem, Anderson?" He attempted a smile, but it faltered on his face. "If you had half an eye in you, you'd see the small bite marks on his right hand, too small to be a dog or cat, characteristic of-"

Sherlock stopped and put a hand to his stomach, taking a deep breath, practically gasping it in. John started forward out of instinct, worry niggling somewhere at the base of his spine.

"Sherlock? You alright?"

Sherlock gritted his teeth, and nodded as he turned back to the body. "Fine, John. A little…dizzy…momentary lapse…"

Greg had looked up from his pad and was regarding Sherlock steadily. "We can take a break, if you like. They'll have some sofas downstairs."

Sherlock waved them away with an irritable flick of his hand. And froze. John barely had time to repeat the question he'd asked less than thirty seconds ago before Sherlock was on his feet, swaying, still with his back to them.

"Sherlock…" Greg said warningly, moving forward. John was readying himself to catch Sherlock if he fell, inching his way to the left and tensing the muscles in his arms.

Sherlock turned on his heel, took a staggering step towards the doorway, and vomited before he could get any further.

John had to admit his timing was both appalling and spectacular. He aimed away from the body which, he reflected a second later, probably pleased Greg – contaminating evidence wouldn't have made his job any easier. It was simply unfortunate Anderson was standing directly in the line of fire. It was even more unfortunate that Greg had allowed Sherlock first access to the scene, meaning Anderson hadn't yet put on his scrub suit.

There was a long silence. Anderson stood like a statue, totally in shock, with the remains of the meagre lunch John had managed to force down Sherlock's throat two hours before dripping from his chest and sleeves.

Sherlock left the room so quickly John barely saw him go. The office now smelled even worse than it had when they'd come in.

"Shit!" Anderson wrinkled his nose. "Bloody…shit! Why can't he aim for a toilet like a normal person?"

John had half-turned away from him with the intention of following Sherlock now and apologising later, when Greg spoke.

"Tomatoes. Lovely."

It was two words, two words that made John's heart begin to thump, and he did a quick about-turn to face Anderson, who was still standing, soaked, against the wall.

"Are you bleeding?" His tone was very calm. Anderson's smart blue shirt was almost pink in colour, streaked and sticky-looking. Too sticky, too pink.

"What?" Anderson looked down, spotting the gluey red streaks clinging to the front of his jacket. "No, that's not mine; it's not blood. Must be tomato or something."

"Sherlock doesn't like tomato. He hasn't eaten any in days."

Greg stepped forwards, squinting. "Christ, I think that is blood…"

John was running through the doorway before he could hear Anderson's reply, turning his ankle at the top of the stairs and practically falling down them. The police tape had already been ripped, and the bewildered officer at the bottom was still standing with half of it held in her hand, as if she'd been ready to politely lift it out of the way and been denied the opportunity.

"Which way'd he go?" John practically snarled in the poor woman's face. "Quickly!"

"Left!" The officer pointed. "That way, there was nothing I could do to stop him…"

"Sherlock!" John bellowed, skidding down a corridor and barging a woman carrying a briefcase out the way without a second glance – he could hear Greg shouting somewhere in the background, and pretended he hadn't heard.

Sherlock wasn't hard to find; there was only one set of toilets with a group of confused-looking people standing outside it. He hadn't even been able to make it to the men's, but was slumped against the sink in the ladies with his forehead pressed against the taps and his eyes closed.

"Sherlock," John said again, leaning down by Sherlock and slipping his hands under his arms. His brain felt blank; everything was blank. The bathroom, his expression, even Sherlock's face, it was all blurred to make room for words like 'haematemesis' and 'shit', which were liberally filling every area of thinking space. "Get up Sherlock; we've got to get you to a hospital…"

Sherlock gasped, bucked, and vomited again, spattering the mirror, John's hands, his own face, bright red. John felt his throat contract.

"Fuck…"

Sherlock added weight to the curse by turning his head to one side coating the hand taps in a fine pink mist. John was reminded very forcibly of the battlefield; Sherlock's lips were smeared into bizarre, swirling shapes by the blood running between the cracks in his teeth.

"Get up, get up," John snarled, seizing Sherlock more forcibly under the arms and trying to get him to stand; he couldn't do anything here in the bathroom, there was no space to breathe, no space to lie down. They barely made it upright before Sherlock's legs went out from under him and John was forced to wrench his shoulder in a desperate attempt to take the dead weight.

"Can't…" Blood dripped from Sherlock's lips onto the tacky floor. It looked almost purple against the grubby lino.

"Just put your arms round my neck," John muttered, forcing Sherlock's hands up to weakly grasp his shoulders. He slid his arms under Sherlock's bent knees and lifted sharply, groaning under the strain; who would have thought that bone and curly hair could weigh so much?

"'ll b'sick on you," Sherlock slurred as his head flopped against John's shoulder with a dull thud.

"I really don't care right now," John replied through gritted teeth as he kicked the door open and made his way into the corridor, Sherlock clinging like a monkey to his upper body. His nails dug cruelly into the backs of Sherlock's knees as they staggered down the corridor.

"Call an ambulance, Greg!" he shouted. Never yell to a general crowd to call an ambulance; people always assumed someone else had done it, and no-one ever had. Always ask a specific person, someone trustworthy, if possible. Sherlock convulsed and John felt warm blood and vomit drench the back of his shirt and trousers. Someone behind him swore, and someone else screamed.

"Already done!" To his surprise, it was Anderson, not Greg, who skidded down the flight of stairs and came to help him support Sherlock's weight. Sherlock groaned and pressed his face into John's shirt. "He's onto them right now. Sent me to help."

John nodded, glancing up at the top of the stairs in time to see Greg's shoes appear on the top step. His shoulder was throbbing tightly – even with Anderson helping him out, the strain on it was too much. Sherlock's lack of speech, lack of movement, was terrifying; unable to see his face, it was left to John's imagination to conjure an image of just how pale it would be. But at least they were out of the poky bathroom and constrictions of the corridor leading to it, and he could think more clearly.

"Help me lower him," he muttered. The blood on his sleeves was bright red – the rupture in Sherlock's stomach must have been sudden, large. Survivable, he reminded himself. Definitely survivable. "Gently, gently…"

Sherlock twitched, gasped air and began to cough violently as John bent at the knees and Anderson helped prise his arms from round John's neck. By the time they got him to the floor his cheeks were flushed from choking, despite the fact the rest of him was drip-white.

"Fuck!" John snarled, taking two fingers and prodding them urgently but gently past Sherlock's teeth to clear his throat. It took a couple of seconds, and his hand came away slick with blood, but Sherlock's breathing became easier. Ragged, but there.

Anderson looked on the verge of fainting, so John grabbed his arm and pushed it onto Sherlock's legs.

"Recovery position. Now." Together they forced one of Sherlock's legs over the other, and John pushed on his knee to roll him into the correct arrangement, just in time to send the next trickle of blood across the floor rather than down the back of Sherlock's throat and into his lungs.

"Ambulance is on its way!" Greg called down the stairs. John snapped his head up to listen. "I'm staying on the line. Anderson, get those people away!"

Anderson and the officer who'd been holding the tape were gone before John could blink, and he didn't have time to wonder if it mightn't have been better to have Anderson next to him to keep Sherlock steady before the coughing started up again, and the thought dissolved as quickly as it had formed.

"Keep still, Sherlock," he said, loudly, clearly, as soon as the hacking as gasping subsided. "There's an ambulance coming, we'll get this sorted, alright?"

Sherlock responded by trying to sit up, bracing his shoulder and elbow against the slippery floor and raising himself a couple of inches before John could grab for him. He lifted his head, blood dribbling down the contours of his neck like tears, tried to say something, choked, and collapsed again. John hissed breath out from between his teeth and forced him back into the recovery position.

"I said stay still, dammit!" He was shouting now, loudly enough for the people being ushered away to shoot him glances; worried, disproving, scared, it hardly mattered. Sherlock shifted, so John put one hand on his shoulder and the other on his hips, forcing him down. "Stop moving!"

Sherlock gagged up more blood and went very still; John had to check his eyes, which were wide and panicked, the pupils still moving, thank god, to make sure he was alive. Glazed eyes were one of the few things John, even with all his medical training, couldn't stand. The last time he'd seen them had been more than two years ago, when Sherlock had been lying on a pavement rather than a tiled floor, although the amount of blood was probably about the same.

"Sorry," he murmured, relieving the pressure on Sherlock a little. "You just need to listen to me. Please."

Sherlock made a noise somewhere between a sob and a retch and his nostrils flared with panic. "J'hn…"

"Shh." John reached forward and pulled Sherlock's sodden hair out of his eyes, smoothing it back. Blood was soaking into his back. Their little patch of floor looked like a grisly murder scene already – Sherlock might have been enjoying himself if the person who looked dead already wasn't himself. "I'm here."

Sherlock nodded minutely, closing his eyes and gritting his teeth. John saw his throat work before the next onslaught began, although the quantity of blood was beginning to lessen. He lifted his sleeve over his hand and quickly wiped Sherlock's mouth clean, and then scrubbed his cheeks, leaving messy pink streaks. He had one hand on Sherlock's pulse, keeping time by the soft fluttering against his fingertips. Compared to the shouting and swearing he'd been listening to for the past few minutes, everything seemed very quiet. Even Sherlock's breathing had evened, although it still rattled and bubbled against the blood John couldn't get rid of; the blood clinging to his throat, the insides of his cheeks, teeth, tongue. The smell of acid and iron was overpowering.

Greg was making his way slowly down the stairs, the phone pressed tightly to his ear and one hand over his nose and mouth. "They say they're less than a minute away," he muttered, voice muffled by his sleeve. "I told them as much as I could, but…"

John nodded distractedly. "It's fine. I'll go with him, make sure they know everything."

"Is he…?"

"He'll be alright," John said calmly. He could see himself as if from Greg's perspective, kneeling beside Sherlock's body, talking serenely. It wasn't the first time he'd felt out of his own body, but he hoped to god it would be last; the feeling was unsettling, making his stomach roll and his lips heavy. "Probably a stomach ulcer. They'll have to check of course, but the pain and bleeding both point to it. Although, most people don't get quite so…drastic symptoms." He sighed. "You never can do anything the easy way, can you?"

Sherlock muttered something unintelligible in reply and twitched his fingers against John's hand.

* * *

One blood transfusion, an endoscopy and several protein pump inhibitor injections later Sherlock was sitting up in bed looking very pale, eyes half closed, and John was perched on a plastic chair with his chin resting on his cupped hand. He'd had to bargain extensively to be allowed into the room out of visiting hours, and in the end the whole enterprise was useless; they were both constantly falling asleep and missing whatever the other person was saying. After ten minutes of 'sorry, what were you saying's, they'd given up. John dozed, Sherlock dropped in and out of consciousness, and somehow the silence managed to be halfway comforting.

John felt like his heart rate hadn't slowed in hours, but he could at least breathe properly now, stop panicking. Or so he told himself; he still jumped when the door to the room opened, twisting instinctively to face whoever it was.

Mary. Nothing to worry about. She was holding a bunch of flowers loosely in one hand.

"How is he?"

John glanced back at Sherlock and saw he'd fallen asleep again. "He probably feels like utter crap. Won't admit it, of course."

"Of course."

John had a strong sense of de-ja-vu, and wondered if he might have somehow managed to prevent the chaos of the past few hours if he'd paid more attention to Greg's comments about Sherlock being pale.

"Philip was pretty shaken. Greg asked me ring him with any news so he can pass it on to him; you don't think Sherlock would mind?"

John shrugged. It took him far too long to put the name Philip to Anderson. "Doubt he cares much right now." He raised his head from his hand to focus tiredly on Mary's face. "Anderson did a good job, considering. Get Greg to tell him I said thank you."

Mary nodded and put the flowers down on a side table before finding a second chair and dragging it next to John's, putting one arm over his and resting her head on his shoulder. Her hair smelled of cherries. Comforting. "And you? How are you holding up? You look…"

"Don't," John murmured. He knew he looked exhausted. He _felt _the greyness of his cheeks; he didn't need Mary to say it out loud.

"Right."

"Sorry." John buried his head back in his hands and scrubbed his gritty eyes, wincing as they stung. "He'll be the death of me, one of these days. He really will."

* * *

**I know this is kind of a weird scenario really, but I liked the way it came together in the end. I did my best with the internet and what stomach ulcers can cause – apparently vomiting large amounts of bright red blood indicates the stomach ulcer has damaged an artery, but I don't know how much people usually throw up, so this might be more dramatic than it should be. As always, I apologise for medical i****naccuracies.**

**Thanks for reading, reviews welcome!**

**To be continued. **


	5. Cessation, Part One

**Warnings: Violence, small amounts of blood**

* * *

John woke.

Or at least, he thought he did. It was difficult to tell; his eyes were gluey, inconveniently heavy. The pain in his head was immediate. Stupid. He felt stupid. Was this how Sherlock thought normal people were all the time? Something was wrapped around each of his wrists, binding them tightly, each to a separate…pole? Stake? He could feel his fingertips tingling. His head sent another spike of pain behind his eyes.

John winced, gasped, and opened his eyes. Blurry, dim light leapt out at him, making his lids crinkle as he instinctively jerked his hand in an attempt to shield them, but both his wrists were well and truly secured to the chair he was sitting in. When he moved, everything rocked; his ankles had been tied, one to each foreleg. Something damp and hot dripped down his cheek.

He was alone, in the dark. For a second he prayed it was all some kind of joke, some kind of experiment, even though he knew neither Mary nor Sherlock wouldn't go so far as to hit him and draw blood.

He didn't remember how he'd got here; he thought the last place he remembered was his home, but that might have been a dream, a hope. He was very cold, very tired, shivering and scared, but awake. And alone. When he tried to move his hands his fingers ached as the tendons of his cramped wrists strained, and he hissed. But he'd had worse. Forget about it. Do something.

His neck clicked as he lifted his head and looked around. An empty building, by the looks of it – unoriginal, too dramatic, too easy to find. A warehouse in the midst of construction, or deconstruction; one wall looked only half there, and the freezing wind scraping the back of his neck and hands indicated the one behind him wasn't in much of a better state. The whole place was abandoned. John convinced himself that was a good thing. It'd be the sort of place Sherlock and the police would look for first.

He turned his head as far as it could possibly go, looking for escape routes. There was a door in front of him, metres away; too far for him to drag the chair without falling.

It had been light when he'd last been at home, and he could see, through the crumbling walls, that it was dark now. Mary had been visiting friends in the afternoon, but she would have realised he was gone by now. John had left his phone on the kitchen table, and she knew he never went anywhere without it. She would work it out.

But in the meantime, he had to try and escape by himself.

He was in the act of shuffling backwards in the hope of finding an exit, inch by laborious inch, the ties sawing at his ankles as they shifted against the chair legs, when something touched his neck. He smelled iron instantly; smelled a weapon. Stiffened.

"I'd stop there, if I were you."

John recognised the man's voice, even if he couldn't see him; he and Sherlock spoken to him less than two days ago, investigating a suspicious explosion that had killed three people. John had thought him bland, unassuming and innocent. Wrong. He wondered if Sherlock had seen through him.

"You." Stupid thing to say – his voice cracked, half-drowning the sound anyway – but he did it mostly to fill the deathly silence. The only sounds were his own breathing, and Liam Vine's fingernail tapping at irregular intervals against the barrel of the gun.

Vine said nothing. When John opened his mouth the gun pressed more tightly against his scalp, and he closed it again, not wanting to risk it. Better to wait, to understand, and then to act. He felt sweat and blood drip down his temples.

It was as the first drops of blood hit the floor of the abandoned building with a soft patter that he heard a car draw up. It wasn't close by, and if it hadn't been for the quiet of the room he wouldn't have been able to pick it up. But he did. He heard the slam of a door, a pause, and loud footsteps. Getting further away, disappearing…

John's shoulders loosened in disappointment. No-one was coming to save him. Probably a good thing; anyone who stepped through the front entrance would end up with a bullet in their head…

His heart gave a thud as his brain caught up with the situation; the chair, the gun, the obvious location, the fact he'd been taken in broad daylight. Sherlock would work it out in a minute. Less, if he had Mary's help.

John was bait. He remembered pretending to fish with Harry when he was little; spearing unfortunate worms on the end of sharp sticks. His stomach wriggled and throbbed, and his head snapped up, pressing back against the barrel of the gun. The pain in his temples lessened as he made a desperate attempt to think.

"Call for him."

John blinked. Sweat caught on the edges of his eyelashes and made them sticky. "What?"

"Call for him."

A frown made the blood dried to his forehead crack uncomfortably. "What do you-"

The footsteps sounded on the street outside, grew louder, and then softer again. They were at running pace, hurried, maybe even panicked. Realisation hit John like a truck. Sweat began to bead his upper lip, settling in tiny, stinging pearls under his nose.

"John!"

Sherlock's voice made John jump, bouncing the barrel of the gun against the nape of his neck in a sickening reminder of how near death was. He didn't want to die. Every muscle, strained against it; the thought of dying made his neck stiffen, his throat contract, stomach churn. He had Mary. He was going to have a baby. He loved them. All he had to do was call out…

No. He wouldn't. He wouldn't make Sherlock die for him.

"I said do it," Vine hissed. The gun jerked into John's neck again, making his teeth click together as his jaw clenched. "Don't warn him, or I'll shoot you in the head. Shout for him to help you."

Not so you can kill him, John thought, gritting his molars and breathing through his nose, willing himself not to scream. He had no clue what he was doing. He was going to end up shot. They both were. The absurd thought occurred to him that they needed a new kettle; that he should write it down on the shopping list…

The footsteps grew nearer again. Another few seconds as they would be right past. And John had an idea, a flimsy, stupid idea.

He opened his mouth, and shouted. "Hol-"

A hand clamped clumsily but firmly over his face before he could get more than half the word out, teeth cutting against the soft flesh of his lips; he hadn't been able to gather enough volume to be heard. The footsteps passed again.

"Not like that. I've seen the two of you together; you don't call each other by your last names." Vine chuckled dryly. "No-one does, nowadays. Do you think I'm stupid?"

Dully, John shook his head. Vine moved the gun so it was pressed against the very centre of his head, ready to shatter the skull; John could see it shattering in his mind's eye, could see the strings of his own brain oozing over the chair. Sherlock would hear the shot, and he'd come running. He'd end up dead either way.

But if John could get Vine to believe he was cooperating, just for a second, he might be able to…

Yes.

Footsteps, the swish of Sherlock's coat, and the click of the nail against the cold barrel of the gun. It was a risk. Did he dare?

He could try.

"Sherlock!" he screamed, forcing the name out of his lungs, even as his own tongue tried to prevent it, warning him this whole thing was a bad idea. Terrible, stupid idea. He had the sudden, bizarre urge to laugh as the footsteps slewed to a halt. "Help me, Sherlock, I'm in here." The barrel moved from his head a couple of inches, angling towards the doorway. John pretended he hadn't noticed, keeping himself rigid and scared-looking. "Sherlock! Please!"

"John!"

The sound of Sherlock's expensive shoes slapping the pavement, coming closer every second, made John want to be sick. He wished, for the first time in his life, that Sherlock didn't trust him so impeccably.

As soon as he could hear Sherlock's heavy breathing, John threw his neck back in a sharp snapping motion that made his throat work, banging straight into the off-angle barrel of the gun with enough pent up desperation to knock it to the floor. It went off as it skittered over the smooth stone, but the shot was wild, causing the skirting board to erupt in a volley of splinters. Sherlock might have shouted; John didn't hear. He was too busy praying that Sherlock could get through the doorway in time to save both of them. Blood pattered onto his knees.

A pale hand appeared around the crumbling doorframe before Vine even had time to stoop for the weapon. John felt his heart jump. "Get the gun!" he shouted. "There's a gun, Sherlock!"

He realised Vine wasn't bothering to reach for the weapon in the same instant he saw the hair-thin wire stretched across the entrance, saw Sherlock's shoe press against it just as the rest of him careered into sight, coat wrapped haphazardly around his torso, half-tangled round his legs. John had no time to shout a useless warning, barely enough time to take in the look of determination still on Sherlock's face as the doorway imploded with a roar of splintered sound that made his ears pop and spewed heat in sickening waves across his cheeks.

Smoke stung at his eyes instantly. John began to cough. Vine was saying something about incomplete detonation, angry, but John could barely hear him over the ringing in his ears. Already he was focused on the rubble, trying to pick Sherlock out, trying desperately to see some sign of life, some hope. The doorway had collapsed, spreading bricks in a haphazard heap, but it hadn't been large enough for any debris to reach John. Sherlock might still be breathing. He might be salvageable, like a precious stone cradled at the heart of a fire, protected by chance, by hope.

John realised he was screaming Sherlock's name, sitting perfectly still in the chair and screaming. Numb. Everything was numb, tingling at best; even the smoke was only mildly irritating, compared to the agonised apprehension and panic which wrapped itself tightly round his throat.

"Shut up," Vine snarled. The gun was back, pressed against the back of his ringing ear; John ignored it, staring at the pile of rubble like his life depended on it. It did depend on it. He felt as if his own heartbeat were attached to Sherlock's; he could somehow breathe for both of them until the nightmare was over.

Something moved. John felt his breath hitch. A stone, a single stone, had shifted minutely to the left. And then another, further down – about an arm span's length. Sherlock was moving his arms.

John wanted to scream at him to stop. Now he'd seen him, he knew Vine could too.

Distraction.

"Bastard!" John snarled, wrenching his head back and acting as if he were trying to bite. "Bastard, bastard!" Creating anger wasn't difficult; he'd believed for whole seconds that Sherlock had been torn to pieces, shredded by granite and splinters like paper going through a machine. Now he had to act like he still believed it.

He knew it hadn't worked the second the gun moved from his ear. Vine's foot crunched splinters as he moved forward; through the smoke John caught a glimpse of his face, squinting at the pile of rubble. Vine's mouth moved. John spat a stream of the foulest words he knew, insulting everything he could think of, in the vain hope it would provoke him.

The rubble moved again, and he saw Sherlock's hand, blood-covered and dusty, appear from under a heap of bricks, shoving them to one side before falling back limply. The gesture screamed exhaustion.

John switched tactics; he began to shriek.

"Run, Sherlock!" He couldn't hear if he got any reply; he moved on too quickly. His lungs burned with the sheer effort he was putting into his voice, creating as much volume as he possibly could. "Just run, get up, run!"

Vine paused, turned back to John. He could have shot him, but he didn't. He winked.

John screamed hard enough to feel as if his throat was tearing, hard enough to make himself feel sick. Sherlock still was moving, shifting the odd rock or piece of wood from his chest, but not enough. He wasn't going to make it. Ten seconds before Vine got there. Five.

John thrashed against the ties, barely feeling it when blood began to run down his wrists and ankles. "Run, Sherlock, he's coming, run!"

Three seconds. Two. John rocked the chair frantically, dragging himself forward, too slowly.

Vine stooped, pinning the hand John could see resting limply on the rubble with his foot before he reached down and seized Sherlock by the hair, yanking him out of the bricks, which clattered and thudded onto the floor, drowning out the scraping John was making as he frantically tried to get the chair to move. Sherlock was blood-streaked and burned, so covered in dust John couldn't tell whether his eyes were open or not, arms dangling limply as Vine dragged him clear of the wreckage and threw him down again. Sherlock's head jerked as he hit the floor, and he gave a groan, bringing up his hands to protect his face.

"Run!"

Perhaps Sherlock couldn't run; perhaps he'd broken a leg, perhaps he was just too tired. Even his hands, pressed protectively over his face, were limp and pathetic-looking. John wanted to shout at him not to be so stupid, not to give in, but he couldn't find the words, couldn't bring them to his lips. The air seemed to hum with anticipation; his ears were buzzing.

Vine brought the gun towards Sherlock, hovering over his head, but Sherlock kept twisting back and forth, hands and elbows over his face and neck, so Vine shifted sideways and pointed the barrel at Sherlock's chest, right over the heart.

The calm, clear thought passed through John's head that it was a strange turn of events – that he had been the death of Sherlock, rather than the other way round – a pulse-beat before the gun went off.

He felt something inside his heart snap and implode, sucking every drop of feeling from the rest of his body and concentrating it in one, painful, pulsing ball of distress. He forgot to breathe. Bound to the chair, helpless, he couldn't do anything but scream.

Sherlock's body bucked under the impact of the bullet, lurching at the collarbones. His head cracked against the ground.

Everything was suddenly very still.

John's vision span, shattered, and became clear again. He realised he'd stopped screaming, muscles loose and stringy. He sagged against the ties, panting, throat burning with bile, let himself relax in the chair, imagining himself as a limp puppet at the end of a string. He forced himself to go numb.

Another click, another footstep, a rattle, the sound of splinters scraped across the ground, and a thud. Vine had knocked one of the bricks at the bottom of the heap of rubble out of place. The whole thing shuddered and began to slide downwards, outwards, creeping up against Sherlock's body in a tumbling, rolling mass of debris.

Somewhere in the midst of the sliding stones, the final charge, the one Vine had muttered about being incomplete, exploded.

* * *

**I know, I am a bad person. There are two parts to this last chapter, so don't run screaming yet (I mean, unless you really want to).**

**Thanks for reading, reviews welcome!**

**To be continued. **


	6. Cessation, Part Two

**Warnings: Bad language**

* * *

For once, Greg had convinced Sherlock not to go in alone. It had been pure chance; Sherlock had been at the Yard when Mary had come to show him the photo of John, slumped and grey-looking in the dim light, eyes closed. He'd wanted to go straight there, but Greg had stopped him. Sherlock had almost been killed before, going in alone, too many times just _running_ without thinking. Greg had just enough officers to create something that vaguely resembled backup. Shambolic, perhaps, but with the potential to be useful.

Sherlock had gone on a head, to 'scope the area' or so he said. Greg had let him. Silly. Of course, of course Sherlock would run inside one of the buildings. They'd been climbing out of the vehicles when the explosions racked the street, blasting Greg onto his back and sending Mary stumbling into a wall.

The rest of their team had been mostly unaffected which, he reflected, spitting blood out of his mouth two minutes later, was a damn good thing. Because they were going to need the manpower.

The building Sherlock had vanished into had collapsed in on itself, although a few beams remained, with bricks and rafters piled and splintered around them. It hadn't been entirely razed; it was possible they were still alive, just possible. Greg had one hand on Mary's arm, holding her back as they waited the time out, hearts pounding, making sure there wouldn't be a third explosion. Sirens wailed in the distance; soon they would have company. But until then…it was just them.

Greg was going to get them out.

The second hand of his watch went round for the third time, and the team began to edge cautiously forward, testing the outer reaches of the rubble. No more explosions.

"Alright," Greg shouted, waving the team onward. "Find them, quickly. We're looking for three males, thirty to fifty." Had Sherlock said Vine was forty or sixty? He couldn't remember. "One with dark hair, big coat, you all know Sherlock. The other's shorter, brown hair. The last we saw of him, he was wearing a blue jumper. They're our priority. The third man's our perpetrator; if you can get him out, do, but don't put the others or yourselves at risk for him."

If he'd thought he'd have been able to say that they could let the bastard get crushed for all he cared without being sued, he would have.

Mary's arm left his hand, and he look down to see her calmly hitching her skirt from knees to thighs, rolling it up and revealing a long ladder in her tights. Greg raised an eyebrow. She looked at him. When she spoke, her voice was very calm.

"He's my fiancé. You can't stop me." A pause. "But you can come with me."

She wasn't one to waste time, he'd give her that. He should have said they weren't trained for it, that they weren't even in protective gear, that she was a _civilian _for God's sake and it was madness that could get him fired. But he didn't. She was already ahead of him, already pushing towards the building. He could have stopped her, but he'd have to use force. He didn't want to.

Greg pulled off his jacket and followed her into the rubble.

It was like a maze of stone and wood, something all-too easy to get lost in. Two of the squad had had training with explosives and were busy sweeping for further charges, calling out as the areas were cleared one by one. The team fanned out behind them and were searching the safe areas, working their way carefully around as they scanned for signs of life. Greg and Mary stuck near what had been the wall leading onto the street, partly because it would be easy to get out of the rubble started to collapse, and partly because the team weren't there, so there was no-one to send them back to wait at the car.

After less than thirty seconds their hands were bloody from the jagged bricks, their clothes dusty. Mary's hair was in her face, and when she shoved her fringe away she left white handprints like flour against her scalp. She hissed as her wrist brushed a beam, leaving splinters embedded in the skin, and Greg winced when his trouser leg was torn open by something that might have been glass – it was difficult to tell in the dim light. He made a mental note to get a tetanus jab for both of them as soon as this was over.

The calmness he felt was disconcerting, even if it did allow him to do his job without dissolving.

"Over here!" one of the team shouted. Greg snapped his head up to see two of them standing about ten feet away, waving. "We've got someone!"  
"Who?" Greg heard himself yell, at the same time Mary asked if they were alright. He was scrambling over the rubble before he could stop himself, almost twisting an ankle, not wanting to look where he was going in a desperate attempt to reach them. He forced himself to watch his feet; the last thing John or Sherlock needed was for one of the people trying to get them out to break a leg. Mary cursed as a beam snagged her coat.

By the time he reached them they'd already got enough of the rubble out of the way to reveal John's head. He looked dazed, blood that had been stained by the grey dust crusted to his face and neck.

"Can you move your hands?" one of the team – Greg thought it was Hayes, although it was hard to tell them apart in uniform – was saying. Greene and Blackstone were holding up the beams, making sure they didn't collapse. "What about your toes? Anything broken?"

John looked at them dully, mouth pressed tightly together. He shook his head. One of his eyes was already swelling shut.

"Let me," Mary murmured, pushing her way through and crouching down. John had been lucky, Greg reflected; the beams had formed a support around him and he was nestled in his own pocket of clear space. There were a couple of roof tiles smashed close to his face, and his cheeks were peppered with tiny cuts, but nothing much worse than that, to look at.

"You're going to be fine," Mary said. "We'll get you out of here in no time."

John continued to look dull. Not relieved, not grateful, not even scared, but flat. Greg might have said he was in shock, only his eyes were too focused, too rational. He tried to tell himself that John was only worried about Sherlock – who they _would _find, he thought firmly, too firmly. Hayes undid the ties on the chair and he and Greene carefully removed John from the wreckage. As soon as he was clear they swarmed on him, checking for injuries, asking questions, testing pupils, but John shrugged them off. And all the time, there was still no word from the people searching for Sherlock and Vine.

"We'll find him," Greg said, crouching down by them and pushing his hands through his filthy hair. "He's a stubborn git, he'll be fine."

"Did you see where he was when it happened?" Hayes asked, already sponging the wound over John's head, making the dried blood run pink. "The sooner we can find him, the sooner we can get him out…"

John's eyes flicked towards the street. He blinked, slowly. "He was by the entrance." He went on before Hayes could open his mouth. "Don't…don't bother. I don't want to see him."

"He'll be alright," Greg lied, grasping John's arm tightly. John didn't give up, not on anything, certainly not on Sherlock. Not ever. His heart was pounding. "We'll find him. I swear it."

"He's dead." John's voice broke and faded out until he inhaled sharply, wincing as blood ran down his face and dripped off his nose.

"You don't know that-" Mary began.

John continued to stare at the floor. "He was shot. Before the explosion…I saw it. He's dead."

Mary's hands were already over her mouth. Hayes and Greene exchanged glances and whispers, and then made their way to place John had indicated. Some of the air seemed to have been sucked out of them, now that they knew they were looking for bodies.

Greg still refused to give it up. "Where?"

John remained silent, until Greg took his arms and shook him.

"What does it matter?" John had one finger to his forehead, pressing savagely against the cut blossoming there, until his face was screwed up in agony. "He's dead. I saw it. No tricks this time, no…miracles." John laughed; it sounded more like a death rattle. "He's fucking dead. I killed him."

"Don't," Mary murmured. "You didn't-"

"I was bait!" John snarled. Greg started back from him; he looked possessed, manic. For a couple of seconds his face contorted into something between a grimace and a scream, before relaxing into smooth dullness again. Greg wasn't sure which was worse. "He came here for me, and he got shot. Right in the heart, right in front of me. For fun."

The white noise which had, until now, been threatening to engulf Greg entirely, suddenly faded out. "What did you say?"

John had his face pressed into his hands, shoulders trembling with grief, although there were no tears. He was gasping, rather than gulping. He sounded in pain. "For fun."

"Not that," Greg hissed, gripping John's shoulder so tightly he could feel his jumper ripping. "You said in the heart. You saw it?"

John looked up. "Yes."

Greg got to his feet, running over to Hayes as quickly as he could manage, shouting as he went. "He's alive! You're still looking for a live one, dark haired man – he's alive!"

"Don't toy with me, Greg!" John was screaming now, dislodging rubble as he forced his way through the beams, brushing off Mary, who was trying fruitlessly to hold him back. "Don't you _dare_ do that to me!"

Greg intercepted John's hands, which had been about to shove him backwards, and held them. "I made him wear a vest. We were at the yard, Mary was already in the car, the team were getting ready…and you know him, he always insists on going in alone. I…we had a fight over it. I said if he was going to go in first, he had to have some kind of protection, or I wouldn't allow it."

John's face went blank. "What?"

Greg felt like laughing, even though he knew Sherlock might still be dead; he was at the centre of the explosion, the bullet might still have gone through, but there was a chance, and he was going to cling ruthlessly to it.

"Just the chest? Nowhere else?"

John nodded. "He was covering his face…bloody hell, he _wanted _to get shot in the chest…there's a chance – isn't there? A chance he-"

"Sir! We've got him!"

There was a clatter and a scrape, the sound of people shouting, someone coughing raggedly. The rubble began to slide and shake, but John was already pushing past Greg. Hayes and the others didn't stand a chance; John cut through them like scissors through water, Mary right behind him, John swearing, shouting, and throwing his arms around Sherlock in a trembling mass of confusion and relief whilst Mary stood just behind them, one hand on John's head and blood smeared over her nose.

Sherlock was wheezing, groaning every time he moved, slumped against John with his chin pressed onto his shoulder, eyes closed. If it hadn't been for the grey dust plastered on his face, it would have been impossible to see that he was crying.

* * *

**Well, that's it! I did consider killing Sherlock off as a pretty real option, but seeing as I'd have to warn about character death anyway it wouldn't exactly have been a shock to the system. So he escapes. This time. **

**I'm sorry if this fic seems a little bitty – it was a lot of unconnected ideas I had that sort of came together, but I'm hoping you still enjoyed it!**

**Thanks for reading, reviews welcome!**

**The end.**

* * *

**Also – I recently worked on a short fic with the lovely Random Ruth, called The Fake Suicides Club. It's on Random Ruth's profile if you want to check it out; she's a wonderful person and I really enjoyed working with her on it! **


End file.
